Page 40 of From Paris, with Butter
She was standing so close we were nearly nose-to-nose. I could smell her Coco Mademoiselle perfume. She still looked irritated at whatever had been bothering her when she walked in.
“It must be overwhelming for you to try to manage all the baking on your own,” she said.
I shrugged, choosing to ignore whatever passive aggressive message she was hoping to relay. “I’m looking at it as a challenge.”
“What do you have for the menu?”
“I haven’t finalized it yet, but one of the ideas I had was to make croissants with a baklava filling. You know, honey, nuts, maybe pieces of dried fruit.”
I was actually extremely excited about this idea. It seemed like the perfect combination of two iconic recipes.
But Sabine was shaking her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, lips pursed. “It’s too obvious.”
“Too obvious?”
What was this, a magic show? Was there supposed to be some sort of surprise reveal?
“Yes.” Sabine nodded. “Much too basic. If you were a professional, you’d understand what I meant.”
It was like she knew just how much I was struggling to feel confident. The one idea I was really happy with, she went and poked a hole in.
Internally, I was a mess of anxiety, but I chose to only shrug and smile, knowing it’d rankle her. “I’ve served a lot of people, and what I’ve found is people generally love to see a dish they’re expecting. It’s comforting, and it makes them feel smart for having predicted it’d be there. In any case, we can ask Fatima what she thinks.”
Sabine was looking more irritated than ever. I’d have to tell Laurent that he was no longer the resident crank. This woman had run off with the prize.
“What else have you come up with?” she asked, a disdainful eyebrow raised.
I hesitated to make sure my voice wouldn’t come out shaky. I certainly wasn’t going to let this woman see she had me flustered. “I have an idea to make mille feuilles with a Middle Eastern filling—there are a lot of options there. Also, my mother had her own recipe for palmiers. Every time she baked them, people loved—”
“No.”
Sabine spoke quietly, but the distaste in her voice was so strong I took an involuntary step back and bumped into the countertop.
“Sorry?”
“No, you’re not baking palmiers for my gala,” Sabine said, irritation clear in her voice now. “This is a high-level, professional event, not your family Christmas party. Find something more sophisticated. I’m not sure why Fatima ever pushed for you to take this role. You’re clearly out of your depth.”
The level of her anger disturbed me. This could not just be about the dessert menu for a charity event. “It’s weeks before we need to have the menus set,” I said, carefully keeping my voice steady. “If you don’t like any of the ideas I have, that’sfine, but it’s far too early to be calling me a bad choice.”
Sabine seemed about to say something more, but, at that moment, Fatima and Laurent came back into the room, animatedly discussing refrigeration techniques. With a final glance at me, Sabine turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Laurent hurried over, frowning. “Is everything alright?”
I considered telling him about the interaction, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Sabine’s doubts in my abilities were too close to my own, and voicing them would only make me feel worse. Instead, I smiled. “Absolutely. Are you ready to leave? I’m starving.”
After a week of steady rain, the sun had returned in full force. Laurent and I had just enough time for a picnic lunch before I headed off to work the dinner shift.
We walked to Parc Monceau, with its soaring archways and worn, regal grandeur. Once there, Laurent spent roughly five thousand hours walking up and down the grass until he found the right spot to have our picnic.
We settled onto the large blanket Laurent spread out, our shoulders touching and our heads tipped back so that the sun shone on our faces.
Laurent had several of his shirt buttons opened, and I spied a peek of blond chest hair. It seemed like such an intimate part of his body that I almost felt as though I was seeing him in his underwear.
That’ll be next,I hoped.
“These cookies you made are sublime,” Laurent said, taking a bite of one. “I can taste the orange water. They remind me of the final course I had at a Moroccan restaurant in London. It was one of the best meals I’d ever had.” He lay back in the grass and closed his eyes. The sun highlighted the gold strands in his hair. “You’ve been everywhere; what’s your favorite meal you’ve eaten?”
I laughed. “Do you want the real answer, or the answer I give to keep people happy?”
